Page 22 of Somewhere Without You

Twenty One

My head throbbed. Sunlight stabbed through a gap in my curtains, landing hard on my face. I groaned, rolled onto my back, and ran my tongue across my wine-stained teeth. My mouth tasted like something had died in it. Classic hangover.

“Fuck,”I groaned, my voice agravelyrasp.

Water. I needed water.

Slowly, I pushed myself upright—trying to keep the nausea Iwasfeelingat bay. Why did I do this to myself? I alreadyknewwhy, but sometimes excuses are easier to swallow than the truth.

I hugged my arms to my chest and shuffled down the stairs. Spring in the Appalachians can beverytemperamental, and I hugged myself tighter as the morning chill glazed over my skin.

“Water and coffee,”I mumbled, my eyes squinting against the haze of sleep as I stumbled into the kitchen.

The rich scent of ground coffee bloomed beneath my nose as I scooped a generous spoonful into the filter.

I grabbed the handmade mug from the counter, added a splash of cream, and hovered by the machine, willing it to brew faster.

Whenitwasfinallydone, I cradled the cup in both hands like something sacred.

Steam curled up in lazy tendrils as I tookthatfirst, blissful sip. My gaze drifted over the rim of the mug, scanning the kitchen—until it landed on the leather satchel, still resting on the table. My memoryslowlytrickled in—followed by a hot flush of embarrassment.

Ihadwrittena letter to a Civil War soldier. A dead Civil War soldier.

Ifmy headwasn’tstill pounding, I would have laughed. Desperation doesn’tgetmuch clearer thanthat. At least no one elsewashere toseeit.

I set the mug down and walked to the table.

Maybeitwastime to pack all this away.

I’dcall around this afternoon and find a museum to donate them to.

Thatwaswhere they belonged.Butfirst, I needed to burn the one Ihadwritten.

The one no onewasever meant tosee. I didn’tevenwant toseeit again.

I reached for the satchel and unfastened the clasp,fullyexpecting toseemy crumpled, wine-stained letter nestled inside.

Itwasn’tthere.

Instead, a fresh envelope rested at the bottom with my name written across it in delicate, spidery script.

My heart lurched. How muchhadIactuallyhadto drink?

I stared at the letter, the buzz of my hangover fading beneath a creeping chill.

“This isn’t happening,”I whispered.

Ilookeddown at the satchel again, a coil of dread tightening in my chest.“I’veofficiallylost my mind.”

I brushed my fingertips over my name. It didn’tseemreal—like touching a bruise Ihadn’tknownwasthere.

The rational part of my brain—the partthatusuallyfunctioned,evenifhaphazardly, scrambled for answers.

It pointed to the wine bottle, the throbbing headache, the haze of a morning hangover.

It offered up simple explanations like an elaborate prank, or a rare form of temporal displacement induced by.

. . well, Iwasn’tentirelysure, but cheap alcoholseemedlike a solid culprit.

I should open it, right? I mean, it was addressedto me after all.It wouldbe rude not to read it.

Hesitantly, I tore the envelope open. The brittle paper crackled like dry autumn leaves beneath my fingers.

“Dearest Miss Hart. . .”

I sucked in a breath.

Nope. No way. Thiswasn’thappening.

I pressed my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. I needed to sit down. I needed to breathe.

I set the letter on the table and dropped into the nearest chair, letting my head fall in my hands.Maybeif I counted backward,I’dsnap out of whatever hangover induced hallucination thiswas.

“Ten. . . nine. . . eight. . . seven. . .”I cracked one eye open.

My name still stared up at me.

“Six, five, four, three, two, one,”I rattled off in a rush.

Nothing happened. Iwasstill awake and still insane.

A sudden crunch of gravel, followed by thelowgrowl of an engine, cut through the silence. My head jerked up.

Shit.

I jumped to my feet and shoved the letter back into the satchel, trying to dial down the panic fluttering in my chest. Yanking the fridge open, I shoved the satchel inside and slammed the door before I could second-guess myself.

A white pickup barreled down the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust before it rolled to a stop beside the Focus. LG Contracting wasstenciled across the side in bold black letters.

Stillwearing yesterday’s clothes, Ilookedlike shit andsmelledlike a bar. Thank God Iwasn’ttrying to impress anyone.

I stepped out onto the porch, bracing against the sharp morning breeze as Icarefullyshut the half-broken screen door behind me. Shading my eyes with one hand, I squinted at the windshield, ready to give some halfhearted smile and a sorry-I’m-a-mess apology.

Butthe second the driver stepped out, my smile withered.

A jolt of nausea twisted in my stomach. The truck door slammed, and I stopped breathing.

Hewastall, alwayshadbeen, but the lanky frame I rememberedhadfilledout with thick muscle.

A nervous heat crept up my neck, as Iwatchedhim walk toward me.

The morning sun kissed his chestnut skin, casting golden light over the stubble lining his jaw and I blinked several times, hoping this ghost of a man woulddisappear, but it only brought him closer.

“Emily?”he said, voice rough with age but still familiar.

The sound of it nearly knocked me off my feet, and I grabbed the porch railing to steady myself.

“Logan?”I choked, disbelief coating my throat like syrup.

Thenhe smiled—those damn dimples still carved into his cheeks.“It’s been a long time.”